


Lover Boy

by Zjol



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4634808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zjol/pseuds/Zjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He was maliciously creative when it came down to killing a human being—a quality Houston was wary towards—and compared to the rest, Wolf was truly the single neutral chaotic constant in their lives."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lover Boy

Hoxton and Houston didn't exactly get along when they first met. Or even after days turned into weeks, then months working together on heists. It wasn't like they were trying to get along either, so it couldn't come to be a complete surprise.

Hoxton was relentlessly and unnecessarily cruel towards Houston. It was likely that it came from his bitterness and resentment he felt towards him. It made complete sense to be a little bit pissed off—Hoxton did get replaced, technically, and had his name taken away from him, though briefly—but he was being far too harsh for the crime committed.

"Hey, lover boy, move your ass!"

There it was again. Another bewildering insult. Houston scowled, hitching the full bag of gold bars onto his shoulders. It weighed down on his side, heavy and sharp, the edges of the metal rubbing into his back. It didn't allow him to run, in fact, he was barely making a brisk pace. Hoxton had grabbed a bag of cash—a lighter load—and had darted in front of him to the van, yelling at him as he passed. Houston didn't really expect anyone to go out of their way to be all buddy buddy, they were all just coworkers at best, but Hoxton was really on the far end of the spectrum, being that one annoying douche in the office, the one that everyone hated. The one that everyone should hate, because it didn't seem like anyone was in the least bothered by his antics.

Dallas liked him enough to risk all their necks to break him out. Chains seemed to like everybody. And Wolf followed him around often and appeared to be fond of him. It must be a mutual feeling, because Hoxton, a fiery-tempered fellow, had a low tolerance for bullshit, and having a constant shadow would be more than grating, though it seemed like it wasn't the case. At least, not with Wolf. And the fucking nicknames Wolf shouted at him in the middle of firefights, Hoxton never so much as blinked an eye at any them, just responding as per usual, and once in a blue moon, would amuse him and call him "Wolfy" in a rather uncharastically endearing tone.

Houston finally reached the van, shoulder aching under the weight of the bag and in anticipation of the others still back in the vault. He hurled it in, grunting with effort. He turned around to see Hoxton and he could just imagine the look of disdain on his face behind the snarling mask. Houston was irked as well. Maybe it was the frustration with the bag, maybe it was Dallas scolding him earlier for killing the tellers, who the fuck knows, but his face felt too hot beneath the mask and he itched to flip it up and off.

But he wasn't going to. Hoxton turned slightly and was about to run back in to retrieve more bags, but before he could, Houston spoke,

"Why do you call me that?"

Hoxton turned back to him. "What? Wanker? Twat? Dickhead? You gotta tell me which one, because I haven't got a favourite, yet."

"Lover boy. The other ones make sense, but this one doesn't."

"Listen, shit for brains"—he put an emphasis on this one—"I really don't have the time to explain to you why 'lover boy' is an insult," Hoxton scoffed, whirling around to jog back into the bank.

Over the course of the next few weeks filled to the brim with bank robberies, drug deals, and shootings, Hoxton had stopped calling him "lover boy". That didn't mean he wasn't calling him any names at all, it just meant he was using the others more often to take its place.

Houston's favourite so far was "ass clown". It was the second one to make little sense to him. He supposed with his mask, he looked like a clown. And the "ass" prefix was to denote some sort of negative connotation, hence "ass clown". Maybe it was a clown that looked like an asshole. Or a clown for asses. A clown made of ass?

While zipping up piles of cash, Houston turned to Hoxton, "I noticed you stopped using 'lover boy'."

Hoxton shrugged. "You didn't seem to get it. Why call you something you don't understand? You seemed to know 'fuckface' better."

Houston tossed his zipped up bag out into the bank. "I like 'ass clown' more. What does it mean?"

Instead of indulging him with a full-length explanation, Hoxton heaved an exasperated sigh and hoisted a bag out of the vault and away from him. He quickly stopped calling Houston "ass clown" after that.

\--

Sokol joined the crew. After a successful run at the Golden Grin, they all congregated and celebrated their success back home in a club. Houston had always hated clubs—they were sweaty and dirty and grody, and no matter how "high class" Dallas claimed this one was, it was still a club and it was still all the disgusting things a club was.

Hoxton seemed to share his opinion. He looked pissed the entire time, but also looked like he had refrained from saying a thing for Dallas' sake. He excused himself, balancing a cigarette on his lips as he stood up. Wolf seemed too drunk to follow him this time. He was howling; fitting for his name, unfitting for a man his age. His face was flushed and he began to giggle to himself, words barely making their way through his glee. Houston got up, too, and left, taking his beer with him. He wasn't a big drinker and Wolf's demonstration explained why. He sipped mildly, the cold dryness soothing nothing. He wandered out to one of the balconies, following Hoxton's footsteps.

Houston pushed open the door, the night air gentle compared to the harsh chill of the A/C. He walked alongside the railing, finding Hoxton halfway through his cigarette.

"Thought you were Wolf," Hoxton muttered, not looking at him. Houston shook his head and leaned against the railing beside him.

"No, he's far too drunk inside."

Hoxton breathed out a putrid cloud of smoke, scoffing as he did so. "He always gets too drunk."

They fell into a silence after that. It was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, just a factual silence that took place between them, barely heavy, barely light. The pink and blue neon glow of the lights was matte against the curve of Hoxton's neck and hair. It was harsh against the gnarls of his scars. He flicked ashes over the railing, eyes still averted.

Houston thought back to seeing Hoxton for the first time. He was dishevelled and scowling, though it could have been the baton impaled in his thigh or the explosion still ringing in his ears. His hair had been a floppy mess and he had seemed to be perpetually annoyed by something. Again, maybe it was the pain of the hole in his leg or the barrage of bullets directed at him, Houston was still unsure of which.

Hoxton's hair was longer now, grown out and pulled into a low ponytail. Houston was told that it was what it was like before he was sent to prison. He watched Hoxton breathe in from the cigarette and wondered what else Hoxton was like before. Was he just as irritable? Or was he more lighthearted? Did he allow Wolf to call him silly names then? Or was it a new development? There was so much that Houston didn't know or understand of him. He served under his mask and name for two years without any smidgen of knowledge of what the original mantle bearer was like, only hearing anecdotal notes and the occasional slip up from Wolf with the name calling.

Houston rubbed a hand over his own hair. It was cropped close to his scalp, the short bristles brushing his palm.

As an attempt at conversation, "You stopped calling me 'lover boy'." Hoxton seemed taken aback at first, his eyes sharpening, temple taut. He regained himself with a curt chuckle into the air. Houston felt a small smile tug at his cheeks.

"You weren't getting it, remember?" Hoxton tapped a sprinkle of grey ash off of his cigarette.

"Or 'ass clown'."

"That, too." He took in one last inhale before grinding the stub into the floor of the balcony. He brushed past Houston towards the door, ponytail flopping up and down in the glow of the artificial lights.

Sitting back in the club with the rest of the crew, Houston found himself watching Hoxton more than usual. Maybe it was because, for once, the Brit was taking a break in his spewing of toxic slurs of "wanker" and "motherfucker" and the like towards him. Maybe it was the calm, conversation they just had outside. Or whatever the brief exchange was to be called, because Houston felt like it lacked in too many aspects to be referred to as a conversation.

And it was a different kind of watching—not the cautious kind that Houston threw every so often to make sure Hoxton wasn't behind him with a knife in hand. Houston didn't feel like he was in danger or like he was being threatened. He was calm. And he watched Hoxton calmly. He was slouched in his seat, a flushed Wolf curled beside him, still mumbling and still giggling, although gentler now, coupled with hiccups.

Sokol was on Hoxton's other side, his face a dull pink. He was young, but he was also Russian, able to take his liquor well. He seemed to have responded positively to the team, fitting in without a hitch—in work and socially. Dallas was warm towards him, the charismatic and charming man he was, though Houston, his own little brother, could see past it and detect something more.

He turned to his left. Chains was smiling, his bright eyes glittering with cheer, a strong hand on a delicate wine glass. He was a classy drunk, Houston thought, amused. Wolf suddenly hiccupped, a bit louder this time, and buried his face into Hoxton's side, eliciting an exasperated murmur of scolding from the Brit.

"You're not going to throw up, are you?" Hoxton nudged at Wolf's chin. The Swede shook his head sluggishly before resting it on Hoxton's shoulder. Hoxton appeared annoyed, his brows furrowing dangerously until he looked down. Perpetually, Wolf was a time bomb, ticking away to its own heartbeat. He was not so much as intimidating as he was unpredictable in the sense of life or death. He was maliciously creative when it came down to killing a human being—a quality Houston was wary towards—and compared to the rest, Wolf was truly the single neutral chaotic constant in their lives. He was able to prove his loyalty to Payday over and over again, but the state of his mind was at question. Dallas can only keep a leash on him for so long.

But Houston found that none of that was of concern right now. Wholly relaxed, Wolf wasn't the image of danger. Instead with his cheeks flushed and mouth lolling open, he looked almost childlike, conjuring images of innocence and purity. The irony made Houston smile into his beer bottle.

Hoxton seemed to respond differently as he unearthed his arm from under Wolf and wrapped it around his shoulders, his head dipping downwards. "Fucking lightweight," Hoxton murmured into the short crop of Wolf's hair, a gentle smile betraying the hostile words. Hoxton didn't seem to notice anything around him now, just the slumped form of a snoozing Wolf held his attention. Houston wasn't sure on what to make of the display. He looked away, as to give them what little privacy the club could offer, and took another swig of his drink.

\--

Chains gripped Houston's shoulder with a heavy hand as he pushed him into the van. He fell in, none too gracefully, and scrambled further in to make room. He looked over his shoulder, breath still held in his lungs. Chains was waving to Dallas and Wolf, shouting at them, voice hoarse from competing against the gunfire.

Houston felt the adrenaline course through his veins with familiarity. They weren't safe—no, not yet, not until Dallas and Wolf and Chains were in the van and being driven far, far away—but the heist went well with minimal mistakes and injury. He could just see the smirk of a smile behind Dallas' mask as he inched closer to the van with a bag on his shoulder.

The bag was in, then it was Dallas, then Wolf's bag, then Wolf himself. Chains made a ruckus of celebratory cheers as he hopped aboard and slammed the van doors shut. They all pulled off their masks, smiles on each face until Dallas clapped a contented clap on Wolf's back and he doubled over, face pale. Immediately, Dallas sobered up at the task on hand with Chains silently handing him a medical bag.

Dallas helped Wolf remove his ballistic vest by snipping away at the sides with scissors from the kit. He gingerly pulled the pieces off of him, finding it difficult as the Swede was still bent over in pain, sweat beading on his blanched forehead.

The van screeched to turn, jostling their bodies carelessly against the walls. Wolf let out a small groan as he was bumped in his seat. Quickly, Dallas tore up Wolf's dress shirt, scissors sliding through the fabric like butter, ignoring his laboured breathing as he worked. His chest was splattered with bright red splotches and was warm to the touch. Dallas grimaced, cracking a first aid cold pack and wrapping it in the remnants of what was once a nice button up. He pressed it down onto Wolf's torso, hand steadily and firmly holding it in place. The van's atmosphere stayed somber and Twitch wasn't even pitching in an attempt at easing the mood, denoting that the situation was grave, at best.

Wolf stayed curled in on himself, finding solace in the silence. His temples were still taut with distress, eyes still tightly shut.

There were injuries every day, running around, handling heavy bags, dodging bullets, it was bound to happen—it wasn't like it was the safest job in the world. Far from it. But Wolf was usually a happy camper, a smile lighting up his face, even when a current of blood tried its best to smother it. He was always an upbeat wounded pup, either yelling in jest or cursing brazenly, Wolf was, in the least, predictably energized in times of stress. It was probably the adrenaline.

Though, here, lying on the hard floor of the van, packed alongside the bags of loot, bouncing against canvas and loose equipment, Wolf was quietly absorbing the shock of his injuries and it worried Dallas and it worried Chains. They both knew him long enough to know that it wasn't just another bruise or scrape or even a large gash on the side of his head—this was something else.

Wolf coughed, then wheezed, his breath rattling loudly through his throat and his lungs, echoing beneath his bruised ribcage. Dallas eased his pressure on the ice pack.

"We're almost back to the safe house," Chains said quietly. He looked to Dallas.

Dallas met his gaze, eyes hard and steady, resolution plastered haphazardly onto his face. "We're taking him to the ER." Both Houston and Chains looked like they were about to object, but Wolf beat them to it,

"No," he rasped.

Dallas glanced down at him and for a moment, a split second, Houston caught the panic on his face. He was scared for Wolf. He was scared for Payday. He didn't know what to do. That alone made panic begin to churn in his own stomach.

"Wolf," Dallas began, a tad shakier than before. "I'm not risking it."

"I am," he mustered. He fell silent once more, his breathing ragged and sharp, body succumbing to the extent of his pain.

Houston knew how much this stumped Dallas; it was either follow Wolf's wishes as an old friend and colleague, or override them for business. Dallas shook his head, bowing it down in thought, knuckles white as he gripped the ice pack.

Chains watched Wolf for a bit as the van rolled into the driveway and into the garage. "Okay, but you don't get to die on us," he finalized, taking the weight of responsibility off of Dallas' shoulders. He glanced at him. Dallas didn't say a thing otherwise. Wolf weakly nodded at that, still folded up on the van floor.

\--

The loot didn't matter to them anymore. It was all Wolf now.

Dallas rushed into the safehouse, commandeering a room with a bed. He moved a desk in with arms still sore from the last heist, and piled in the main medical kit and equipment. Chains was close behind, ordering whoever was hanging out in the main room to make way. He shooed a confused Clover back to the lounge.

"What's going on?" She asked, eyes boring past him in search.

"Just a little mishap on the field today." He left it at that.

Houston was left to gather Wolf. He stepped over him to get off the van, then slipped an arm underneath his crew mate's shoulder and another behind his knees. He held him close to his chest, not wanting any cause more unnecessary shaking. As quickly and safely he could move, he followed Dallas' steps. He glanced down to check on Wolf, who had made no sound since the van, and noticed the blooming bruise on his head. Houston's breath was caught in his throat. Gently, he shook Wolf's shoulder as he still made his way towards Dallas. Wolf barely cracked an eye open.

"Don't close your eyes," Houston warned, words strained. "Don't fall asleep."

Houston wasn't lacking in strength nor in fitness, two paramount qualities needed for his job, but Wolf was built as well, his form heavy in weight and it was beginning to wear on him. Houston struggled to make the rest of the way, but he managed to not drop Wolf onto the bed. He leaned against the headboard to catch his breath. He looked over to Wolf and found his eyes shut so he reached out to shake his shoulder again.

Wolf looked so tired and it made Houston feel almost guilty for forcing him to stay awake. He came up with an idea and he began to move, propping up the pillows and having Wolf lean on them instead of lying down. It didn't create an extraordinary difference, but it helped, just a bit, to keep him conscious. Houston sat down, pulling out another instant cold pack. He cracked it, the gel instantly solidifying to a cold hardness and he repurposed a triangle bandage as an ice pack wrap. He held it up to Wolf's bare chest, holding it in place like Dallas had done.

Houston raised a hand, patting it against Wolf's cheek, gentle enough to not cause any more pain, but firm enough to have an impact. Wolf shook himself awake at the contact, wincing and shrinking back after a moment of head shaking, his breaths short and rapid.

"Just stay with me." Houston gripped his shoulder. "Don't fall asleep. Just stay with me." Wolf regarded him from under heavy eyelids. He was starting to drift off again. Houston gave a quick pinch, hoping to spark some life into his eyes. Wolf stayed sluggish.

There was a murmur of heated voices outside the door, then a loud, lilted outburst. Hoxton slammed the door open, an exasperated Clover on his tail. Houston scowled, standing up to confront him. Wolf merely squeezed his eyes shut. "Fuck off, lover boy," Hoxton hissed as he pushed past Houston, using an elbow to pry him away. Clover gave Houston an apologetic look. He shrugged. Hoxton wasn't controllable in the least, it wasn't her fault. Both Houston and Clover watched as Hoxton bent down to Wolf's level, inspecting him, looking him over, forehead wrinkled with blistering worry. And both of them frowned when Hoxton grabbed both sides of Wolf's face none too gently. "How could you let this happen to yourself? You've got to be more—"

Houston and Clover recoiled, a little surprised at the volume of the hit.

Hoxton staggered backwards, his back hitting the wall. He looked surprised as well, eyes wide, mouth parted mid-sentence. The silence in the room was thick and muffling, like cotton in their ears. It was suddenly all too stuffy and it made Houston antsy. Though, it didn't look like Hoxton was truly hurt or in pain, he just looked startled. Clover, however, pulled her hands out from her pockets, fingers curled—not yet forming a fist, but not completely complacent—as she kept a tight watch. She was wary of Wolf, eyes sharply assessing him for any signs of threat. It was a fair reaction to take. She hadn't worked alongside him as long as they had. If Wolf was willing to strike a longtime teammate, what was stopping him from wailing on everyone else?

Wolf had fallen forwards with the momentum of the hit. He slumped down, a hand bracing against the bedside table to keep from slipping to the floor. With the back of his head exposed, Houston could see the drying gash on his head that looked to be sticky with a thin wash of crackled blood.

"What the fuck are you guys doing here?"

Chains looked from Wolf to Hoxton, then to Clover. There was a brief silent pause. Then he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "Get the fuck out!"

Clover crossed her arms, nodding uncharacteristically obedient as she turned from the room. Hoxton took a longer time, but he left just as painlessly as she did. Chains didn't waste any time to start his work.

"There's a, um, a cut on his head," Houston proffered. He gestured to his own head of where the injury lay. "On the back. It's about three inches long. It stopped bleeding." Chains nodded along, pulling on a pair of sterile gloves.

"Anything else I should know?"

"Uh, try to keep the ice on his chest, it's still swollen and he's still breathing all funny." Chains gave him an odd look.

"Yeah, but you're going to be the one on top of that."

"What?"

"You hold the ice pack, I'm gonna stitch him up."

"What about Dallas?"

Chains chuckled. "You're a big boy now, you can help me with first aid." Houston felt his cheeks warm up, a little embarrassed that he had come across as daunted by the duty. He walked over to the other side of the bed, where Wolf was still slumped over. His breaths were shallow and that worried Houston more than the cut on his head. The ice pack had fallen off his chest and onto the floor and Houston picked it up without a word. Wolf made a small groan at the sudden cold contact.

"Just breathe, Wolf," Houston said, just above a whisper. Chains sat down on the other side and began laying out his tools. Needles and other metal instruments, sterile solutions, extra gloves, and a roll of towel paper was spread neatly. He hummed as he organized,

"Houston, move him over, I gotta get to the back of his head."

Houston wrapped a firm arm around Wolf and shifted him so he was on his side, back facing Chains.

Dallas came in sometime later and leaned against the door frame, having taken off his suit jacket and looking more haggard than usual with his white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and the first few buttons undone. He watched Chains tend to the head wound for a while, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't say a thing, just had that thoughtful look on his face, one that Houston recognized as an attempt to look stern. Dallas caught him staring as they made eye contact and he left the room, returning with a bundle of folded clothing. He laid it on the edge of the bed. "Get him changed, too," he said quietly and he went back to his position by the door.

Wolf looked fine, he was a little pale, a little quiet, and a little lifeless in the eyes, but he looked like he was going to make it. Houston wasn't sure as to why Dallas was worried that much. Wolf was invincible. He was a survivor. Chains finished sewing him up and patching him with clean dressings. They both gently pulled Wolf up and he made no noise of complaint. Houston kept a tight hold of the ice pack. There were little bunches of bloody tissues strewn across the bed, like romantic rose petals on a bedspread.

"What's your name?" Chains asked. Wolf slowly nodded. Chains exchanged a look with Houston. He repeated, "What's your name?"

"Wolf," he managed to rasp.

"Deep breath, Wolf," Houston reminded. Wolf gave him a weak glare as Chains began his line of questioning.

\--

Chains gave Dallas a curt nod as he exited the room. He finished asking the customary head injury questions and it seemed like it had been nothing, but a cut. The strained breathing, however, was the subject of concern now. It was the chest injury, Chains had said. His ribs aren't broken, not that he can tell. Just bruised. Dallas seemed relieved at that, giving him a quick pat on the back as he crossed the threshold. Chains had packed up the dirtied dressings and refuge, throwing it away along with Wolf's tattered suit. The bed was clean now, just an exhausted Wolf, still propped up on a pillow. Dallas approached the bed, arms crossed across his broad chest.

"I'm fine," Wolf wheezed. Dallas nodded, head bobbing up and down,

"I know."

Houston unfolded the shirt from the bundle and helped it on. Wolf then slowly lifted himself, hip by hip, as Houston pulled up a pair of clean sweatpants.

Dallas ran a hand through his hair, "I'm going to order some food. It's almost..," he paused to take out his mobile. "Midnight," he finished, rather lamely. "I'll just whip something up."

Houston moved back and stood up and away from Wolf. He looked better now, though deeper breaths would be ideal.

"You're not going to die in your sleep, are you?"

"What kind of," he paused to shakily pull in a breath, "fucking question is that, Houston?"

"I'm not letting you sleep until you can promise me you won't stop breathing altogether during it."

Wolf gave him a hard look before taking a shallow inhale. "I can't promise that."

"Then I can't let you sleep," he answered simply, sitting down as a response. Wolf stayed silent for a while, grimacing slightly whenever he needed to breathe in. Which was often. He toyed with the sagging bag of the cold pack in his hands. "You're going to be okay."

He looked rather miffed at that, stopping his fidgeting to glare at Houston. "You guys overreacted."

"Dallas overreacted," Houston corrected. Wolf ignored him,

"And it makes Hoxton overreact."

Houston thought it was ironic; it wasn't exactly Hoxton who had thrown a punch at a mere suggestion of carefulness.

Wolf continued between slow breaths, "Hoxton gets really annoying when he overreacts."

Wow, the things that come out of Wolf's mouth—it made Houston wonder if he was actually being sarcastic all along and was just fucking with him. Because it was working. He was astounded by the lack of self awareness Wolf had at times; yelling unnecessarily in the middle of intense gunfire, calling out garbled nicknames, always following Hoxton around—annoying seemed to be better suited for Wolf himself. For once, Hoxton goes to Wolf and Wolf finds him annoying. Houston opened his mouth to argue, but closed it to avoid confrontation.

Wolf was thoughtful for a moment, "I don't like it when he worries."

Wolf rambled a lot, Houston noticed. He didn't seem to be talking for Houston's benefit, he just seemed to be thinking aloud. Wolf turned to look up at him, "Don't let him come in here." Houston found that to be an overreaction itself.

Finding himself oddly defensive about Hoxton, "Why not? He's your friend. He'd probably want to make sure you're okay."

"You can tell him I'm okay. He trusts you."

Jesus. Wolf was really babbling nonsense at this point. Houston frowned. 'He trusts you.' That didn't sound like the Hoxton he knew. Not one bit.

"I don't think he trusts me, Wolf. I don't even think he likes me," Houston said, sitting down on the bed.

The next thing to come out of Wolf's mouth was so profound, Houston began to question the rest of his past words, wondering if they, too, had another layer beneath them, "Hating someone and respecting someone aren't mutually exclusive, Houston."

Or maybe Wolf was just stupid and Houston was stupid for even listening to him ramble. Or maybe the head injury was far more serious than they had thought it was. Wolf coughed into his elbow, wincing as his arm came up.

"It hurts," he rasped lowly. He leaned his head back. "Hurts to breathe." Slowly, he slid his body down to lie on the bed.

"Hey, don't...don't fall asleep, Wolf," Houston warned. Wolf stared up at the ceiling, a dazed expression on his face. The door opened and Houston looked up, meeting eyes with Hoxton. Perfect timing.

"How're you doing, Wolf?"

Wolf didn't even turn to his direction. "Houston," he began sternly, choosing to ignore Hoxton. Houston closed his eyes. This wasn't going to help their bitter relationship at all.

"Wolf...Wolf doesn't want any company right now," he said after a beat.

"Then why're you still here, mate?" Hoxton asked, irritated. Fucking shit, man. The fuck if he knew. Houston did not want to be caught up between these two at all.

What little progress of Hoxton treating Houston with less hostility was gone, having fallen down a deep abyss of more and more resentment. It seemed like it was Houston's special talent to specifically make Hoxton hate him at every turn. Wolf was adamant on not letting Hoxton anywhere near him and Hoxton was hellbent on seeing Wolf—how the fuck should Houston play that shit out? Let loose a trigger-happy crybaby on his tail or let Hoxton hate him a little bit more, if even possible? Sure, he seemed to have hated him less lately—but man, maybe Houston was soft. The levels of hatred seemed to run deeper and deeper.

It left him in a hell of a position. "I was just about to leave," Houston finished, raising his hands in surrender.

"Houston," Wolf whined, voice coarse. Houston shot him a dirty look. Was this happening to him right now? He was more than a step closer to believing that Wolf was intentionally fucking around and that he was doing this for his own amusement, which seemed like a Wolf-like thing to do; screwing with people's heads for cruel humour.

"Are you trying to be cute?" Hoxton asked, turning to the Swede. "Because you're just being a fucking pain in the ass."

"Houston!" Wolf repeated, eyes wide and frantic as he sat up. He coughed as he drew in another breath. "Please—"

He didn't even get to finish the sentence before he collapsed back down onto the bed, hands splayed on his chest as he struggle to breathe in.

"The fuck is wrong with him?" Hoxton demanded in disbelief. "He should have been checked out!" He was fuming, his brows pulled down in a furious glare. The gnarls of his scars ripped through his face, seemingly more violent than before.

"Chains said that he was going to be okay," Houston responded, shaking his head, unsure of how to proceed.

"Does he look okay to you?" Hoxton shot back. He rounded the bed and crouched down, concern mixing with the anger on his face.

"'m okay," Wolf managed to wheeze. His rapid shallow breaths slowed down to just shallow breaths as he relaxed, both shoulders falling back down to the bedspread.

"Idiot," Hoxton muttered. He rested his forehead on Wolf's arm. "Stop doing that."

Wolf shot Houston a pained pleading look over Hoxton's shoulder.

"Hoxton," Houston cautiously began. "I think we should go."

"No," Hoxton pulled his head up, looking at Wolf with narrowed eyes. "No, Wolf, you have to stop doing that."

"Hoxton—"

"Let me take care of you, stop doing this shit," Hoxton continued, ears reddening. "You have to stop pulling that pathetic little lone wolf act. You're not fooling anyone."

Wolf opened his mouth to retort, though he seemed to have thought better of it and slammed it shut. Hoxton took a deep breath, as if to prepare himself. "Come on, now," he said gently. Wolf looked embarrassed.

"I don't like it when you're worried," he whispered hoarsely.

"What, and you think that running away is going to make me less worried?" Hoxton asked quietly. Wolf fell silent, mulling over his words.

Houston watched the exchange, trying not to be too interested and trying not to listen. It was extremely intimidate, the moment they were sharing, and Houston felt like an intruder of sorts. He wasn't sure on how to exit the room without drawing attention to himself, so he stood there, trying to blend into the background the best he could. He didn't quite understand the relationship Hoxton and Wolf had together. It seemed nothing more than two fellas sharing a beer, and during times like these, there was a sense of something deeper and more romantically inclined than the former.

"Let me help," Hoxton whispered. Wolf shook his head slowly.

"No, Hox, you can't see."

"Why not?" Hoxton straightened up, alarmed. "It can't be that bad, I've had my fair share of injuries. I can handle it, Wolf." Wolf shook his head still.

Hoxton turned his head to Houston.

"It's just bruised," Houston shrugged. He wasn't sure why Wolf was making it out to be a big issue.

But he kept shaking his head, his breaths increasing in pace. "No, you can't see. You can't be here. Houston!"

"Okay, okay," Houston took hold of Hoxton's arm and gingerly pulled him. To his surprise, Hoxton complied, following without fight.

Outside the room, Houston shut the door behind them and turned to see a scowl. It wasn't directed at him, it was just that general vague Hoxton scowl.

"He always does that," he hissed. Houston cocked his head to the side. "Wolf never lets me see any of his injuries," Hoxton pressed on. "Even a fucking paper cut, he just fucking hides that shit and acts like it didn't happen." He pressed the palms of his hands against his temples, leaning against a wall for support as he cursed under his breath. He looked like a tired man, completely out of options.

"I'm sorry," Houston offered. He paused, not entirely sure on why he had said what he had said.

Hoxton waved it off, "It's alright, it's not your fault Wolf is such a fucking pansy." He slid down to the floor, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm going to be here for a while."

\--

Houston drove himself home, showered, and changed into a pair of boxer briefs to prepare for sleep. His body was tired and aching, particular his shoulders, where the bag straps dug in and clawed at his skin. He laid down in his own bed, relieved that he could finally rest, and as he pulled the covers up, his mobile dinged. He mentally debated the pros and cons of checking his phone; it could be something arbitrary and something that didn't need his attention right at this minute and second OR it could be Dallas. He sighed and reached for his phone. The screen lit up and Houston groaned.

It was Wolf. The text from him read:

"Houston. Need help putting on shirt."

Houston typed back a quick answer.

"At home. Get someone else to help."

He put the phone on silent and set it back on his bedside table. It was not his responsibility anymore. He settled back into bed, almost comfortable before his phone vibrated against the glass surface. He decided to ignore it. It buzzed again. Houston picked his phone up and turned it off completely. He needed some fucking rest.

\--

Wolf was laying on his back, phone held above his head. He texted Houston five times now—he thought about giving the man a call, as well, because he really needed help changing. His chest was still shooting up spikes of pain whenever he even thought about raising his arms, which happened to be quite the inconvenience because he really would love a shower. He waited for a response, but by the tenth minute, he lowered his arm and reviewed his options. It looked like Houston wasn't about to drop everything and rush back to the safe house at 4am in the morning. Wolf wasn't even sure if there was anyone else in the building to help him out. For fuck's sake, he could barely roll himself out of bed, why didn't anyone stick around?

He thought about yelling out into the safe house to see who would respond. But again, it was 4am and whoever was still here probably wouldn't appreciate it. They'd probably come in to just beat his ass for waking them. He shifted, uncomfortable with that thought. He really needed to take a shower. He still had the blood and grime from today's, er, yesterday's job and he could feel his skin crawl beneath the layers. Plus, he could kind of smell himself. It wasn't very pleasant.

He tried to pull himself up, but the pain of his chest was killing him, sharp stinging lacing across his front, his rattling bones aching against the swollen muscles. He groaned as he flopped back down. Fucking hell, he wasn't going anywhere. He picked up his cell and thought about calling Houston again. He gave it a little more thought then put his phone down. God, Wolf felt so fucking useless right now. He couldn't even do a menial task such as showering, let alone getting off of a bed.

He sulked alone for a bit, a little bitter about his situation. He should have listened to Dallas, should have listened to his warning, and then maybe he wouldn't have been stupid enough to have taken that shotgun round to the chest. This is on you, Wolf, he thought sullenly. He weakly grabbed a pillow and pulled it over his face, using it as an impromptu silencer for his screaming.

He eventually tossed the pillow to the side. He didn't feel better at all.

The knock at the door startled him, causing him to inhale too quickly and his chest tightened painfully in response. He made a strangled noise as his breath was flushed out of him.

Hoxton poked his head through, flipping on the light switch. Wolf squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden brightness and so did Hoxton.

"Jesus..," Hoxton muttered, wincing still. "Oi, you okay? Heard some noise. Just wanted to check." Hoxton was in a worn t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, his hair down and messy from sleep.

"You can't be here, Hox," Wolf sulked. Hoxton rested his head against the doorframe.

"Why's that, Wolf?" He asked patiently.

"You can't see," Wolf asserted. "I won't let you."

"Why not?" Hoxton entered the room and sat on the corner of the bed, a knuckle rubbing at his eye. He looked a little more well-rested, though his dark stubble was starting to be more noticeable in the bright bedroom light. When it was evident that Wolf didn't quite have an answer to his question, he redirected: "Did you need help with anything?"

"Go back to sleep, Hoxton," Wolf brooded.

"That depends. You okay?"

"I'm okay."

Hoxton scoffed. "What do you need help with?"

Wolf stared at the ceiling, seemingly to weigh his options. He didn't look too happy with the result. "Need a shower," he said quietly, a small grimace on his face. He wasn't proud of requiring the assistance and he certainly didn't want Hoxton to be the one to help. Maybe he could just keep the t-shirt on, something, anything to cover up his chest.

Hoxton helped him up and limping towards the bathroom. He left briefly to grab a change of clothes for Wolf, coming back to see a grown man struggle with turning on the faucet. "Lemme," Hoxton said gently. He helped Wolf down onto the toilet seat cover before he began drawing the bath.

"Don't want a bath, Hox," Wolf said stubbornly. "I said I needed a shower." Hoxton gave him a cold glare as he turned around.

"Don't be a bitch, Wolf," he said, starting to rifle through the cabinets. "You can take a shower when you can stand on your own." Wolf made a face at his back as Hoxton pulled a few bottles from one of the shelves and setting all but one on the counter. He turned around, dunking a hand into the tub. With the chosen bottle, Hoxton squeezed the soap into the bath, foamy suds forming on the surface of the water. "Alright, let's get you in. Come on."

"Better not be cold," Wolf muttered, wincing as he took off his clothes. He tossed them to the tiled floor, standing in nothing, but the t-shirt still on. Hoxton looked at him expectantly.

"What, you gonna bathe with your shirt on?" He asked, incredulous. "It's a fucking bruise, Wolf, we both know it's there."

Wolf shook his head. "I'm keeping this on."

"Wolf, that's fucking ridiculous. Take it off!"

"Hoxton, please," Wolf pleaded, a hand tugging on the hem of his shirt. "I don't want you to see."

Hoxton moved towards him, hand still wet from checking the temperature. "Wolf, I'm not going to pass out from seeing a fucking bruise. You haven't showered in nearly a day." He paused, plucking a piece of lint off of the t-shirt. "And you do smell."

"Hoxton, I'm keeping this on," Wolf replied, shifting away from him.

"Wolf, you—"

"Hoxton," Wolf interrupted, irritation tight on his face. "I'm keeping this shirt on." He coughed immediately after his words, losing the effect and weight of them. He grimaced in pain, a hand rubbing at his chest in a vain attempt to soothe the ache.

Hoxton pressed his mouth into a thin line as he watched. It annoyed him to no end that Wolf was being a stubborn ass, but he really didn't feel like getting into another argument with him. They've had plenty of those. Fighting with him led nowhere, Hoxton just had to be the bigger man. "Alright," he said, unconvinced. He waited until Wolf regained his breathing before he helped him into the bathtub, being careful not to splash himself in the process. The Swede sank into the water, a displeased look on his face. He raise an arm tentatively, sweeping it across the suds.

"Why do we have bubble bath stuff?" Wolf asked, frowning up at Hoxton.

Hoxton kneeled down and leaned on the rim of the tub, fingertips grazing the tips of the suds. "I don't know," he replied, giving a noncommittal shrug. "Might be Chains'." Wolf seemed satisfied with that answer, looking away in thought. Hoxton watched Wolf push at the foam, clawing at it absentmindedly. "Here," Houston leaned back and reached for one of the bottles on the counter. He brought it up to his face and inspected the label before he poured a small amount of the blue gel onto his other hand. He pressed the wet palm on the top of Wolf's head, who reeled away in surprise.

"It's cold," he murmured. Hoxton grunted curtly in response, waiting to proceed. Wolf moved back, despite the initial reaction, allowing Hoxton to work the shampoo into a lather. It smelled earthy, tinged with sweetness. He glanced at the bottle. It was dark grey with white lettering. Nothing interesting to look at. "Should have bought me a rubber duck, Hox," Wolf say with a smile.

Hoxton looked between his arms at him. "Yeah? And some toy boats, too?"

"Of course," Wolf replied, turning to scoop at the suds with two hands. He let the water slip through his fingers before he scooped another handful. Hoxton watched him through the corner of his eye as rubbed gentle circles over Wolf's scalp with his fingers as, the short hairs soft with shampoo. He was careful not to let any of the soap come close to the tape and sterile pad used to cover the small wound. Wolf sighed and leaned his head back.

"Watch it, Wolf, I don't want to get shampoo in your cut."

Wolf stiffened at that. He froze beneath Hoxton's fingers, tension building on his skin. Hoxton leaned down, the soapy scent prickling his nose. "I don't get why you still want that shirt on. If anything," Hoxton looked up, "this might even be an even worse injury."

Wolf stayed silent, unmoving. A fixed statue in a sea of foam. Hoxton continued, in a low voice, "It's not about the bruise, is it?"

Wolf didn't answer and Hoxton didn't press the issue. He rinsed Wolf with the shower head and helped him finish bathing. Hoxton steadied him as he got out of the tub and turned his back when Wolf towelled off and changed out of his shirt and into a set of new clothes. With Hoxton bracing him, Wolf hobbled back to the bedroom. They didn't speak. Wolf couldn't read Hoxton and Hoxton didn't want to be read; he was tired, he was exhausted, he was pissed, but he didn't need Wolf to know. He didn't want him to know he was angry at all. Hoxton didn't want to burden him with that, to make him feel guilty, or even worse, make Wolf pity him or to think less of him. Sure, Hoxton was fucking pissed, but that would pass eventually. Tainting his own reputation and image? Harder to scrub away.

Wolf settled onto the bed, a little panicked that his breaths were shallow again. He watched Hoxton leave the room, the door left wide opened behind him. Wolf heard the clinking of glasses and then the gentle sounds of water running. He returned with two cups of cold water, handing one to Wolf.

Wolf's chest ache pulsed with his heartbeat, straining against his ribs, it felt horrible and it was incredibly sore, but the pain wasn't the worst part; it was how it affected his breathing. Anything that hindered the natural respiration, it was bound to make anyone worried. It was difficult to push past the soreness and to take the breath his body craved, but the crashing waves of resonating pain, it was like his torso had been wrung and set out to dry and crackle beneath the hot sun. It hurt, but it was going to hurt for a long time. There wasn't much they could do about it, besides ice packs and popping a few painkillers every few hours. So what was the point of reacting now? Wolf anchored his arm against his chest as he took a small sip of the water, unsure of how the cold would affect the pain.

It wasn't an incredibly uncomfortable sensation, but it made his chest constrict unnecessarily so. He surmised that this was how it was going to be for the next few weeks as his body heals. It was amazing how much swollen and bruised flesh could do to the nerves of a man. Hoxton set his glass down on the dresser, regarding Wolf with a concerned frown. It was one thing to know that he was in pain, but it was another to not know the extent of the pain. Especially for Wolf, a man too stubborn to let even a sliver of humanity show.

Hoxton went to the door and shut it quietly before moving to the windows. It was early morning, the blue hue of the rising sun tinting the shadows. Fuck that. He pulled the curtains to a close. He moved to the bed and settled himself against the headboard, a hand propping his head up. Wolf stared up at him, hesitant.

"Hoxton."

"What is it?"

Wolf didn't respond immediately. He chewed the inside of his cheek with thought, eyes darting to the ceiling.

"Do you want to see?" He asked after a moment.

"No," Hoxton paused, a hand smoothing over the other man's head, the short bristles already dry. He touched the tip of his nose against the fuzz of Wolf's hair and he closed his eyes, just to keep hold of the moment a bit longer for the sake of his own sanity. There was finally some peace, some quiet, and Wolf was clean and he was soft and he was warm and, dear fucking god, Wolf was opening up to him—"Wait. Yes, I do want to see."

Wolf struggled with pulling the clean shirt over his head before Hoxton took hold and slid it over for him. He wasn't sure what he had expected, maybe a huge round circle of swollen and tender skin, and in the worst case scenario, dark bruising. He lowered the shirt as Wolf leaned back against the headboard, watching him carefully.

There it was, the splotch of pinks, reds and purples. Yellow and green are colours awaiting their landing, but for now, his skin was marked in warm tones. It wasn't quite centred, instead it was dipping downwards towards Wolf's right side, running along the edges of his ribs. It wasn't all too bad, by their profession's standards, but Jesus Christ, did it make Hoxton's own heart ache. He didn't want to admit that seeing the injury had any impact, but as he locked eyes with Wolf, he didn't have to admit it. Wolf wasn't a stupid man. Sometimes he acted stupid, but he wasn't stupid.

He reached for the t-shirt. "Told you," he muttered sourly.

"Stop it." Hoxton grabbed his hands. "Stop it," he repeated, gentler. "It's alright."

Wolf stared at him then down at the rumpled shirt. "I don't like it when you look at me like that."

Hoxton resisted the temptation to argue. He wasn't looking at him any different, not that he intended. He shifted closer and rested his chin against Wolf's shoulder, watching for any signs of discomfort. He slung a careful arm over Wolf's stomach, not wanting to graze the swollen skin. As he relaxed against Wolf and against the pillows, he was unsure of what they were and how they meant, but as Wolf pressed his cheek against his temple and laid a hand over his, then it suddenly made complete sense, in that moment. They rested together, both lost in their own thoughts, listening to the calm in the air and the tension in their minds.

"You look fine, Wolf," Hoxton laced their fingers together. "I don't give a shit." Wolf smiled against his temple, the bushy beard hairs prickling at his skin. Ah, fuck it. Hoxton tilted his head up and kissed him. It would have been nice if Wolf didn't turn away and sputter, coughing, chest heaving up and down. His breathing eventually settled back into its previous rhythm and he gave Hoxton an apologetic look.

"Wasn't you, Hox," he promised with a lopsided grin.

Hoxton barely made a full smile before Wolf leaned in and he was so soft and he was so warm, and Hoxton felt his face flush to his ears, mentally cursing his pale English blood for this moment of betrayal. But it was just so, so nice; feeling the gentle warmth radiating from Wolf's face, so close to his own. To feel the careful caress of his skin on his. It was unlike everything else in Hoxton's life in quality; it wasn't set up, it wasn't a hard mishmash of lips and teeth, bent on needs below the belt—though it'd be nice, too, but considering Wolf's current predicament, it just had to wait. And Hoxton didn't quite mind waiting.

Wolf made a noise in the back of his throat and, for a moment, it made Hoxton concerned for his respiration. He pulled back, slightly, just enough for their lips to part.

"Jesus, Wolf," Hoxton whispered. "You scare the shit out of me sometimes."

Wolf frowned. "It's not like I wanted to get blasted in the chest and maybe die, Hox."

"I'm not fucking talking about that," Hoxton replied. "I'm talking about you," he prodded Wolf's shoulder, "being a fucking asshole and being a fucking drama queen." Wolf stayed quiet, eyes downcast. Hoxton could tell he didn't want to talk about and he could just tell he wasn't going to let it go. Maybe Hoxton was the one being an asshole and a drama queen. Fuck this conscience shit, man. "How's your head?" he asked instead.

"It's fine. Thanks for rebandaging it."

Hoxton stared up at the ceiling. "No problem."

They fell into a silence. Hoxton scoffed and shook his head to himself. There it was, that fucking tension in the space between them. It ruined everything. Those empty ass words, the pleasantries, the beating around the fucking metaphorical bush bullshit. And that pissed Hoxton off more than anything—having that fake conversation bouncing off of each other because both of them were either too fucking stupid or too fucking scared.

The silence wasn't awkward, but it sure as hell wasn't comfortable. It was just reality. The silence, the echoing repetitions and bland words. There was so much to say, but only so few ways to say it and Hoxton was frustrated. He was frustrated. For fuck's sake, he's curled around Wolf, he was just fucking necking with him, but they somehow couldn't come up with one way to address it all. It didn't have to be the right way. It just had to be done.

Hoxton opened his mouth, breath hitching in his throat. Fuck. He couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to do it. This all fell onto his shoulders—he was always the coherent one, the one with a plan, he wasn't wily and absent-minded and constantly on the brink of insanity. He wasn't a stable guy, but compared to Wolf, he might as well be a family man with a wife and 2.5 kids and a house surrounded by a pristine white picket fence. Wolf was loose, he was the teetering domino in the middle of the line, always threatening to start something not intended for him. Hoxton always knew if it had progressed this far, he'd be the one to break the last sheet of ice.

Hoxton was Hoxton, after all, he was a loud-mouthed smart ass, one with extensive experience at that, he just didn't stumble. Wolf was looking at him, watching the waves of various emotions wash over his face during his internal monologue. Wolf, the not-so-very-charismatic technician, the trigger-happy Swedish man with an ambiguous past in business was watching him with his round pale eyes, and Jesus, was Hoxton smitten, an unfortunate thing, really.

Wolf looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I want to kiss you now," he said slowly. Hoxton gave a small amused smile and leaned in, only to have Wolf pull away. "And I want to kiss you tomorrow," he concluded.

"That's all fine and dandy, Wolf," Hoxton replied, moving in again. Wolf kissed him, lips slightly swollen from the last one. It was slow and precise, just small kisses on rotation, and smiling and small huffs of content pressed to each other. It took awhile for Wolf's words to dawn on Hoxton and when it did, he stopped and tilted his head back, looking at him down his nose, eyes narrowed.

Hesitantly, as if he was still processing it, he spoke, "That was. That was your way of telling me, Wolf," he said, a corner of his mouth hitching upwards. "You sly little bitch."

Wolf grinned. "Well, you weren't going to do it."

Hoxton gave a small snort of disbelief and leaned back against Wolf's shoulder. He was definitely going to acknowledge them—he wasn't a fucking pussy. Wolf somehow just managed to slip ahead and blurt it out first. He let his eyes wander over the room as he thought. "Not true," he said aloud. Wolf coughed.

"You think too much, Hox."

"You don't think enough, Wolf."

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to take a break from Fuse Box. Zjol.


End file.
